


Vanquished

by dianalilwashu



Category: Tattered Weave (Video Game)
Genre: Force-Feeding, M/M, Murder, Possession, Starvation, True Names, yknow the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianalilwashu/pseuds/dianalilwashu
Summary: Hero shows up for battle, but finds Dollmaker already vanquished.





	Vanquished

His head was pounding. It took a few knocks before Dollmaker realized that a headache was not what had forcibly dragged him into consciousness, but someone at the door. He made no move to get up. He closed his eyes again instead and waited for the inevitable.

Hero burst through the door with a triumphant shout, broken wood and shattered hinges clattering onto the dirty stone floor before the THUD of the fallen door itself crashed into a shelf. Haunted screeches of dolls disrupted from their rest echoed through the crypt, only a few of them forming words to berate the clumsy Hero, who was briefly stalled in apology. “Ah, no, no, restless spirits, my deepest condolences but I must reach the - aHA! The Dollmaker!”

Dollmaker sighed softly into the mess of cobwebbed hair pooled under his cheek. Though he let his eyes drift open again, his face wasn’t angled toward the door, and he didn’t feel like looking up. He didn’t need sight to hear Hero’s clanking footsteps coming toward him eagerly. “Your barred entrance and trapped souls will not dissuade me from our battle, Dollmaker! Come and face me! I have bested the vicious Wolf that prowls and the sweet Witch’s curse, so your dark deceptions are the last defense to keep me from the tyrant’s castle! No matter what lies you may spin, the Hero will always conquer those who stand in the way of justice!”

Hero’s footsteps slowed as they neared him. Sounding faintly puzzled, he said, “Lying down in the way of justice is no better, vile deceiver.” His footsteps came to an abrupt halt. “I… Wh-where is your mask?”

Dollmaker had enough energy to vaguely flip his hand in an “eh?” gesture. He didn’t bother trying to speak. Hero would accuse him of the same evil tricks regardless. It just wasn’t worth the effort.

Hesitantly Hero knelt over Dollmaker’s body, examining the crumpled, listless form as if it were somehow a trap, like a snake lying in wait. Idly Dollmaker wondered if Hero would stab him and be done with it. But no, as always, Hero had to prove stubborn and uncooperative, strong hands brushing aside sticky strands of hair to look at Dollmaker’s uncovered face. A blush of embarrassment crept past his otherwise empty expression and Dollmaker was childishly grateful to not be wearing his glasses. 

“I don’t understand,” Hero confessed quietly. His other hand raised his own mask, his one good eye searching Dollmaker’s unfocused gaze for meaning. Dollmaker squeezed his eyes shut against the sight. 

Carefully Hero scooped his hands under Dollmaker and pulled him up into a sitting position, then checked him over for wounds. The embarrassment was worsening rapidly with Hero’s hands roaming all over him, so Dollmaker muttered, “I am uninjured, Hero.”

“So it would appear,” Hero replied uncertainly, letting him go. Dollmaker sighed quietly again in relief. “Yet… you are.. vanquished already. Who would defeat the Dollmaker but I?”

“No one, Hero.” Dollmaker shook his head slightly. He was so tired of this game. Round and round they went to the same old story with the same old bloody ending. Why should he fight it? Why should he participate at all? “The seal is broken. Storm the castle to your heart’s content.”

The Hero replaced his mask, then snapped his fingers with an idea. “Aha! The Narrator did this to you! Of course that villain would sink so low as to betray his own minions! Having seen my forthcoming victory in battle, he turned on you before I could even step foot in the graveyard!”

That seems pointless, Dollmaker thought, but didn’t vocalize it. Most of the Stage seemed pointless to him these days. Without his glasses, his blurred vision made it literally pointless. Dollmaker tried to find his own joke funny, but the weight of bleak despair remained impenetrable. He let the heaviness settle over his heart again in silence.

He wasn’t expecting Hero to pick him up, bridal-style, and announce that they were going to the Witch’s cottage. Dollmaker’s heart caught in his throat, wanting to protest. No, please, he pleaded internally, please don’t treat me gently when you don’t mean it. I can’t - Your kindness breaks me more than any battle could.

Hero carried him effortlessly outside as Dollmaker took small, shaky breaths and tried not to feel as vulnerable as he truly was, without a mask to hide his pinched expression and the pinprick of tears barely held at bay. He was too physically weak to stop Hero’s nonsense, and too emotionally drained to want anything but an end to the play. Why wasn’t the Narrator intervening? Dollmaker had missed every single cue in the script. It was only fitting that he be Narrated into performing some twist ending with a knife in the back of the only person trying to save him. So? What was taking so long?

“Good, looks like the Witch is still busy countering her own candy creations,” Hero said as they reached the confectionery. “We should be able to search her magic potions for a curative before she returns! So, tell me, Dollmaker, what foul treachery has so destroyed you?”

Yours, Dollmaker thought, almost spiteful. He bit back a sob and put a hand over his face to hide the desperate fury there. Hero gave him a reassuring squeeze and walked them down into the basement, waiting for an answer. When he gave none, Hero easily took command of the conversation alone. “Whatever it may be, I am sure we can find a solution here! The Witch may be young, but she is exceptionally powerful! She was once an apprentice to another, the Wicked Witch, but when she was about to be eaten alive her magic spun the candied curse around to consume the Wicked Witch instead!”

Dollmaker raised his head off Hero’s shoulder, blinking at the masked man in disbelief. “How do you know that story?”

“Huh? What do you mean? How else would a child become a Witch?” Hero asked, laughing. He propped Dollmaker up on a table so his hands could be free again, and lifted his mask. Dollmaker winced at the cruel familiarity, even with his sight impaired. “She is too sweet a soul to be acting upon her own intent. That she blocked my path is only due to the Narrator’s terrible tyranny!”

“But where did you hear that story? Who told it to you?” Dollmaker pressed. For the first time in ages, he had something - something small and indefinite but something - to hold onto. Something that might, possibly, maybe, be enough to carry him out of the emptiness that had replaced his emotions.

Hero tapped a finger to his lip thoughtfully. “Who…? Why, no one! It is quite obvious!”

“What about me?” Dollmaker swallowed hard over the lump in his throat, both desperate for and dreading Hero’s answer. “What do you know of my story, Hero?”

Hero stared at him blankly at first, and Dollmaker’s heart sank sickly into his guts. “I… You are the Dollmaker,” Hero said slowly, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration. He took a step forward, as if following the trail of his thoughts. “You tend to the restless dead in the graveyard, those spirits who cannot find peace enough to move on.”

Dollmaker’s heart had crawled up from his guts into his throat at Hero’s closeness. He felt hot and trapped under the Hero’s steady eye, sweating under the scrutiny. “You give them form to find their resolutions so they may find peace and pass into death. It is heroic, in its own way.”

Hero’s hand brushed aside a tear at the corner of his eye. “A sad kind of heroic, I think.” Dollmaker couldn’t breathe. He ached for hope, as frail and useless as it was. It had been so long since he’d had any. 

Hero closed the distance between them. Dollmaker’s trembling hands clutched at his armor, awash in feelings of helpless love, sorrow, guilt, and need. When Hero pulled back from the kiss, he put both hands on the side of Dollmaker’s face to rub his thumbs over the top of his ears. “You’re alright,” he murmured, and pressed their lips together again. “I’m here.”

Dollmaker turned his head aside at that, weeping, and put a hand over his mouth to stop it. “You’re not,” he wept, “I’m not.”

“What do you mean?” Hero asked, tilting to the side to peer into Dollmaker’s open face. “Ah! Because you are in need of a cure, still! My apologies, I will -“

Dollmaker grabbed onto him before he could traipse off to dig through dangerous old potions unsupervised. “No, Hero, not - it’s - I’m not cursed, not like you. I’m just…”

“…Like me?” Hero repeated. Dollmaker rubbed at his wet eyes and sobbed. More explanations to be forgotten, discarded, killed without funeral or fanfare-

“Verne.” Dollmaker gasped and looked up, wide-eyed. Hero seemed almost as mystified by the name as he was. “Verne,” he repeated, staring at Dollmaker. “I know your name.”

“You do,” Dollmaker said, dumbfounded. How was this possible? “I told you my name. A long time ago.” Damsel’s curse - was it - was it lifted with a kiss?

“A long time ago? No, that - that cannot be. Dollmaker, do not deceive me! Not here, not - like this -“

“I’m NOT,” Dollmaker cried emphatically, hands slamming onto the table beneath him. “You accuse me every time of lying to you, no matter how I phrase the truth, you never listen! You never remember! You forget, over and over and over and OVER, and I can’t do anything about it! I can’t save you, I can’t stop you, I can’t - I can’t - I just, can’t!” Dollmaker slumped forward, head in his hands, and lost himself to deep, heartbroken wailing.

Hero shook his head, holding up his hands defensively, his expression troubled. “Over and over? That makes no sense! Why would you…” 

A loud growl from Dollmaker’s stomach rather rudely interrupted the drama. Dollmaker ignored it, the same way he’d been ignoring it through rehearsal, one more complaint that wasn’t worth the effort of tending to. “A trial of hunger,” Hero observed aloud, stepping away from Dollmaker toward the kitchen supplies. “No task could be simpler! We are in a fully-stocked kitchen, after all!”

“Hero, step away from that, or they’ll decapitate you,” Dollmaker told him wearily. “They’re called the Headless Helper for good reason.”

“Very well! I shall use this device instead! How does one - aha, I’ve got it!” 

Dollmaker rubbed his face and tried to pull himself back together. He couldn’t fall to pieces like this, not when there was something so unusual about Hero’s memory unfolding right in front of him. What had changed, but the kiss? He’d tried that before, with no results besides an irate Narrator… And where was the Narrator? Had Witch’s spell really gotten that out of hand?

“Hero,” Dollmaker called, a sudden worry jumping to the fore. Hero turned and grinned at him, waving his arms proudly at the wicker cages now steaming up some buns. Dollmaker didn’t have the heart to tell him he wouldn’t eat those. “Hero, you said you bested the Wolf and the Witch. Are they still… alive?”

“Of course,” Hero answered, sounding surprised that Dollmaker would even ask. “I managed to catch the Wolf within her own trap, and when Witch cast her curse on me I cunningly maneuvered the Wolf into the line of effect! I left Witch to figure out a counter-curse so that I could find my way to you before Wolf recovered.”

Dollmaker simply nodded, relieved to hear that Witch was still under Wolf’s protection. They would undo whatever mishap had occurred within the next moon, though Wolf would be mad as hell if it took that long. “Verne,” Hero said again, jolting Dollmaker out of his thoughts. When had he gotten so close again? Their eyes met and Hero crossed his arms, then put them on his hips, then dropped them, his body language screaming discomfort. Dollmaker struggled to choose a practiced explanation from the many he’d memorized, trying to decide which one might finally reach Hero through his curse now that it seemed to be lifting somewhat. Hero beat him to the first line.

“The Dollmaker guides the dead that cannot move on,” he said carefully. “Gives them a means to express themselves so they might find peace. Tells them it’s all right to lay down to their final rest.”

Dollmaker opened his mouth to reply, but Hero cut him off.

“Am I… dead?”

The words cut clean through him, a coup de grace. Breathlessly Dollmaker answered, “You were.”

Hero was very still. His fingers flexed first, opening and closing like they were trying to remember where his sword was. “Did you bring me back?”

“No,” Dollmaker rushed to answer. His unsteady hands reached for Hero’s, but Hero stepped back. Hurt, but understanding, Dollmaker hugged himself loosely instead. “No, Hero, I wouldn’t… I don’t control the dead, I just - I just talk to them. I only try to help them say what they need to before they can rest in peace.”

“I don’t have anything I need to say,” Hero said firmly. He took another step backward, his face now too far for Dollmaker to make out. “I… have something I need to DO. I have to stop the Narrator.”

Dollmaker heard Hero turn and yelled, “Wait!” Hero didn’t pause. “Wait, Hero!” Dollmaker leapt off the table and promptly fell to the floor, a pathetic heap of rubbery limbs on pins and needles. “No! Hero! You try to fight him every time, and every time you die! You fail! You forget! Please! Hero, don’t leave me!”

He felt dizzy with relief when Hero’s metallic footsteps came reluctantly back down the stairs. Or maybe that was just the hunger. “I must stop him,” Hero insisted. “It’s - it’s the one thing I must do, Verne. Dollmaker.”

Hero picked him up again off the floor. “I want to believe you,” Hero told him, pressing their foreheads together. “But I refuse to accept defeat. I will vanquish the Narrator! And all will be right with the world. If you truly wish to aid me, then tell me what I can do to stop him.” Dollmaker’s hands lifted weakly, then fell back to the floor. He felt cold as Hero pressed their bodies together, horrified by what he had known all along. 

[ The Dollmaker was barely strong enough to lift the errant cleaver off the floor, and slide it into the thick of the Hero’s neck before either man had a chance to notice the intrusion. The spray of blood drenched them both as they collapsed together. Fresh and warm, it was too tempting to deny his hunger any longer, and the Dollmaker drank deeply of his fallen Hero. Never again would he forget that he had a role to play in every performance, whether he prepared himself for it or not. ]

Sickly, Dollmaker wiped his dripping chin on his blood-soaked clothing as soon as he was released from the Narration. It did nothing to ease the disgusting nausea that filled him with self-loathing, even as he stumbled to his feet in search of dry cloth to clean his face. He could sense the Narrator’s lingering presence, or else he might have retched right then and there.

[ Those fangs aren’t for show, so if you won’t feed yourself, I will. Let this be a lesson. And Dollmaker, for goodness’ sake, put your mask on. ]


End file.
